In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The author of this poem, a member of the First Canadian contingent, died in France
on January 28, 1918, after four years of service on the Western Front.

Out troops moved into the trench; Until all corners were filledThen we took aim at the oncoming force; And broke the deathly stillHavoc broke out acros the field; As we ran into the frayThe sun poked over the hill; To mark the start of dayThe fight raged on for two more days; 'Til finally it was throughWe dragged out battered bodies back; Only to start anewMonth after month we pushed ourselves; going on a constant man huntWe'd neither stop to eat nor slumber; Until all'd be quiet on the Western frontDaily I tried to write my wife; I wondered how she would surviveI'd wait until the carrier'd come; But no letter from her arrivedInto a battle we charged head on; My life-long friend at my sideThen out of the blue, some shrapnel flew; My companion fell down and died I dropped to my knees, my heart torn in two;As I checked at his chest for a beatRight then though the war was not over; I felt the let down of defeatI stood up slowly, the pain sinking in; As I realized the meaning of warNot to gain more than we need; And to kill a man? What for?War was not about fighting; Or killing for more then we needIt's about about no longer having family; All because of a terrible greedIt's about not being able to go to town; Without being shot at or bombedIt's about always living in terror; So much that you can not be calmedI slowly turned and walked away; My shoulders slumped at my sideMy legs felt numb with pain; As I remembered my friend had just diedMy commander soon came up to me; Excitement glowed on his faceNo joy could ever have been so great; We'd won the last and final raceOh such happniess I felt just then; I could only reply with a gruntAfter a much hard earned victory; All was quiet on the Western frontI went back home to my wife; But she was not to be foundA graveyard stone then told me; She was far beneath the groundAnother wave of pain shook my frame; As I made my way into townPeople crouched beneath small shacks; Since all homes had been burned to the groundYet, no more planes polluted the sky; No more bombs came fast and bluntThe war had left terrible scars; But all was quiet on the Western front

-Copywrite by author - 1998

HE has all the answers

The wait for that perfect someone may be long and painful, but the payoff lasts even longer, and is the most painless thing in the world.